


My Bloody Valentine

by emeraldcitydowntowngirl



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hospitals, M/M, Valentine's Day, Vampires, vampire!patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldcitydowntowngirl/pseuds/emeraldcitydowntowngirl
Summary: They meet during Patrick's midnight shift at the hospital's gift shop, surrounded by graveyard plushies, pink balloons, and a coffee cup filled with blood.(OR: The one where Patrick's a vampire, Pete almost gets his dick bitten off, and everyone realizes that blood stains like a bitch)





	My Bloody Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> y'all already KNOWWWWWWWWWW i am bad at writing things set in the past. like, i was 3 for most of 2003 (@lili- shut up im not a 2000s baby) so i do not remember any of it and i did try to look up some stuff to make sure i wasn't writing about songs post-2003 since i wanted it to be a pre-hiatus type fic (i made SO MANY TWILIGHT REFERENCES and i had to delete them all. well i made one but its super subtle :( team edward!) but as always please suspend your disbelief like i really tried but ya never know 
> 
> also happy valentines day!!! it's my first one not being single (BIG shoutout to madi!!) so im Extra feeling the love today!!!

“How do you drink that?” A customer asks Patrick, pointing to his coffee cup.

It’s three o'clock in the morning, and Patrick’s awake as ever. No ounce of tired in him, he could climb Mount Everest right now and he still wouldn't feel drained. Granted, he can do a lot of things and not feel tired.

It’s three o'clock in the morning, and Patrick can sense everything in the room right now. The sweat from underneath the customer’s clothes, her strawberry scented shampoo, the spicy Indian food in her blood. Cigarette smoke on her fleece jacket and the mint gum she’s chewing. There’s a spider crawling between the graveyard plushies, and someone is headed towards the shop. Towards the shop, or towards the elevator. He can’t tell yet. The footsteps, they’re heavy. Maybe a doctor, he can smell antiseptic. So, the elevator.

He swipes his tongue over his teeth quickly, making sure there’s no trace of blood red between his teeth, before he gives the customer a sheepish smile. “Just tired, I guess. I know, the hospital coffee sucks. Your total is $10.94.”

She forks over eleven bucks and Patrick stifles a nose scrunch as he hands her back her six cents. He hates the smell of cash.

“Totally,” she says, before flashing Patrick a smile of her own. She pockets the change, grabs her teddy bear that reads ‘ ** _FEEL BETTER!_ ** ’ over the chest from the counter, and tells him to have a good night before she leaves. The gush of wind when she opens the door suddenly blows the scent of strawberry shampoo back to Patrick, and he tenses his shoulders before he takes a sip of A+. The stuff in his coffee cup, it’s gotten lukewarm, but he’s too lazy to run down to dilute it with some hot water. So, he deals.

This is what his midnight shift at the hospital gift shop normally consists of. Drinking blood that he borrowed from the blood bank (he doesn't like to consider it _stealing_ , even though it’s 110% _stealing),_ making small talk with customers as he rings up their teddy bears and gender-specific colored balloons, and going through his limited music selection on his shitty MP3. Right now, he’s listening to the West Side Story soundtrack. He was turned around the first time he watched the movie- but it was a happy moment for him, so he listens with ease. He remembers throwing out his broken inhaler after Gabe had turned him, and everyone celebrating with black pudding. Except it wasn’t made of cow intestines, it was made of… _well_...

Being a vampire means that you have to be morally gray. It just does. At least Patrick goes about it in semi-healthy ways now and drinks from blood banks. Gabe, Bill, Trav… not so much. They’re still on a diet, though. Animal blood.

 _‘Fucking bored haha’_ Patrick types into his phone, an ugly little flip-phone, and Bill is quick to reply. _‘Cnt relate. Got back from a hunt n watching a Wes Anderson. Dn’t u wish u were us’._

Patrick bitterly drinks from his coffee cup, only to twists his face up in disgust at how cold it’s gotten. _Maybe_.

He sets his phone down and walks around the store to go get rid of the spider that he heard a while ago. With nothing to do, besides get pestered by his friends, this is his entertainment. Bothering spiders. He hums along to ‘Something’s Coming’ as he stuffs his hands in his hoodie and strolls through the aisles of items, trying to track the spider’s movements. The music, it’s his favorite thing in the world. It’s his dream, to be a producer. He knows that it would never work because he hasn’t aged since… well, 5 years ago. He wasn’t born thousands of years ago, but people would catch on, so it’s nice just to daydream.

He grins, all straight, bloody teeth, when his favorite part of the song comes on, and he lets the spider crawl onto his finger. _Something’s coming, don’t know when, but it’s soon, catch the moon, one-handed catch! Around the corner or whistling down the river, come on deliver, to me…_

He hears someone round the corner, they’ve got heavy footsteps, probably headed for the elevator then, and he opens the window on the other side of the shop to let the spider free. Patrick, the thing that everyone secretly admires about him, is that he would never hurt a fly. He doesn’t like the whole hunting thing, or like killing things. He doesn’t like any of that stuff. That’s why he works at night, and that’s why he’ll drink the shitty blood. He likes being a vampire enough, he thinks dying in the streets because of an asthma attack would have been a stupid way to go, but the whole killing thing is… not up his alley.

The song continues as Patrick lazily makes his way back to the front of the store. _The air is humming, and something great is coming! Who knows? It’s only just out of reach, down the block, on a beach, maybe tonight…_

The person who rounded the corner is inside the shop. His scent, it hits Patrick in the face and almost knocks him down. Worry pumps through his blood, thinly veiled by some shitty cologne. He doesn’t smell _tasty_ , like Patrick wants to rip his fangs through his neck, he just smells like he needs some help or something. His movements are quick, unrehearsed; not like he’s pacing, but almost like it. Looking for something.

Patrick licks his teeth, making sure there’s nothing on them, before he pulls his headphones out, walks over to the customer’s aisle, and turns his head to look at him. He’s looking at the section of teddy bears with a frown on his face. Hands stuffed in a college hoodie, a pair of sweatpants that have a hole by the knee, he’s not attractive to Patrick until he looks in his direction. And it’s not even his short haircut, or the black fingernails from where his hands are pressed to his chin, it’s his warm eyes.

Patrick’s eyes are not warm. They’re blood red, but they’re masked under blue contact lenses.

“Hey, can I help you?” Patrick asks, before he points to the name tag pinned to his hoodie- **PATRICK**.

The customer, he shakes his head, before he goes back to looking at the pink teddy bears with the saddest expression known to man.

When Patrick’s about to turn on his heel to go back to the front, the customer sighs and speaks up. “Actually, yeah, I could use some help. I’m looking for something, uh, it’s for my younger sister. She got into this car accident, we don’t know if…”

He trails off, going back to his somber expression, and Patrick nods while trying to hide the graveyard plushies behind his back. He doesn’t really understand why they have graveyard plushies, but Gabe bought 8 last time he was here, so… there’s that.

“That sucks,” Patrick says and if he were friends with this guy, this is the part where he would bring him in for a hug, “I’m really sorry, I hope she gets better. Here, maybe she would appreciate some chocolate, or-”

“She’s in a coma,” the customer interrupts him curtly. “I don’t think she would appreciate chocolate unless you can stuff it in a feeding tube.”

See, Patrick is not good at this. He’s good at small talk about the weather (he hardly knows about the weather during the day, but he smiles and nods) and the latest movies and music, and about the shitty hospital coffee that he’s never had the displeasure of trying. He’s not good about talking about death. Or comas. Same thing in Patrick’s head… which he knows would not help his customer’s case at all.

The customer takes Patrick’s silence as a cue to continue talking. “She’s 19,” he says, and he looks like he’s close to tears, but he quickly blinks them away. “We always piss each other off, and I’m always kind of a dick to her, but I don’t want her to… fucking _die_ , you know? I wish we could switch places or something… it should be me in her place.”

Patrick swallows hard. The blood coating his throat feels gross, but he feels like it would be wrong if he took a sip from his cup to clear it out now. “I, uh, really do hope she gets better. Not just saying that because I’m on the clock and I would feel obligated.”

They awkwardly stare at each other, and Patrick clears his throat when he feels the air get a little too tense. Three o'clock is always a weird time at night, vampire or not. Everything feels just a little more vulnerable.

“Hospital music is shitty,” the customer says, referring to the 2000s pop they have over the speakers, before he glances over to the cup in Patrick’s hand. “The coffee too. This place fucking reeks like death.”

“I’m just tired,” Patrick lies. “Any coffee tastes good when you’re tired. Why don’t you tell me more about your sister? You sound like you need to get it of your chest.”

He’s not sure what to suggest to this guy, chocolates and teddy bears are the go-to when a friend or a relative is sick. But he gives himself time to think of shit to say that isn’t _‘aw, no, that sucks’_ , and to drink his blood without fear of the customer catching flashes of red.

And the customer _goes the fuck off_ , following Patrick wherever he goes.

“I’m still living at home, finishing my degree, and she goes to the same school as me, and we share a car, and all we do is fight that it’s become natural, you know? Like, siblings hating each other. Except _now_ , all I feel is guilty. I shouldn’t have fought with her before she left. Because what if she dies?” The customer says, as Patrick guides him through the aisles, raking them for something good to give. They pass stale flowers, and bibs for newborns. “And that was the last thing that I said to her? That she was a fucking bitch?”

The customer stops at one of the iguana plushies- they’ve nearly reached the end of all of the aisles. “Wait. Patrick, c’mere.”

Patrick, who was still walking since he didn’t know that the dark-haired customer stopped, turns his head to look at what he’s looking at. “Yeah?”

“How about this?” he asks, pointing to the iguana. “Hil’s favorite animal are iguanas. Do you having a sewing kit?”

Patrick blinks. Does he have a sewing kit… he doesn’t know where this is going, and he’s not sure he likes it.

“Maybe…” Patrick says, narrowing his eyes a little, looking at his customer with suspicion.  “Why?”

“You trust me right?” he asks, and Patrick switches the narrowed eyes out for an eyebrow raise. “Um… I don’t even know your name.”

The customer holds his hand out. “Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third. Just call me Pete. Do you trust me now?”

Patrick shakes Pete’s hand- Pete’s hands are so warm, and Pete kinda jerks back for a moment when he feels how cold Patrick’s hands are. With no blood to keep the warmth, Patrick’s as cold as every room he’s in, and it’s February 1st, two weeks till Valentine’s. So, he’s cold.

“Oh, wow,” Pete notes. “Cold hands, huh? Hopefully that’s not how you feel about trusting me… y’know, cold hands, cold feet. Same thing.”

Patrick wants to say that yeah, the idea of trusting Pete with the iguana and a sewing kit would give him cold feet, but Pete’s sister is in a coma, and it’s 2:30 in the morning and he has nothing else to do. So, he shrugs. “Not really, but yeah, I think we have one. What do you want with it?”

Pete gives Patrick his first smile of the night, a devilish one that causes his eyes to crinkle. “I’m gonna just resew the ‘feel better’ from the teddy bear onto the back of the iguana. That way it means more- I would have worked for it. Please don’t kick me out?”

Twenty minutes later and a lot of puppy eyed looks from Pete, and Pete’s working on cutting off the little piece of fabric from the pink teddy bear that says, **_FEEL BETTER!_ ** Patrick’s finishing up his cup of blood, and he already wants more, even though he thought he was getting better at controlling his thirst. He knows he’s gonna stop by the blood supply to grab more, and he feels a little guilty about it, but Pete’s blood suddenly smells so sweet to him, maybe it’s a sign that Patrick’s warming up to him, or something. And since he doesn’t plan on digging into his new ‘friend’, or rather, ‘customer that he let destroy products in the store’, he makes mental plans to head down to the supply. And, to bring some home since they’re running out.

Pete talks as he works, cutting the fabric a little more so it fits on the back of the plushie a little better, and when he licks his finger to put the thread through the timble, Patrick dips the cup up to get the last drops of blood into his system so it can hold him over. The cheap cologne Pete’s wearing has sunken into his pores, and it smells good. Patrick tries to remember it so he can see if he can find it somewhere in Hot Topic...

“I like poli-sci alright, but I want something more. I’m in a band, I wanna do stuff like that. Even though the scene sucks.” Pete says to him, continuing their conversation, and he begins to sew the fabric onto the iguana with as much practice and finesse that Patrick would expect a 20 something year old male to have. So basically, it’s not going well.

“You’re in a band?” Patrick asks, leaning on his elbows to watch Pete work. “What’s it called? Maybe I’ve heard of it. Or maybe you’ll give me something to listen to.”

Pete doesn’t look up, he’s fully concentrated on his… art. “Arma Angelus. I’m the screamer… I doubt you’ve heard of us, we’re not that good. But I want us to be! I just can’t focus on it when I’m studying to be… a lawyer.”

“Smart you didn’t cover your hands or face in tattoos,” Patrick notes, with a small blood-free smile. Pete’s hoodie is to the right of them. Pete took it off to focus better, which, in hindsight, doesn’t make much sense, but Patrick gets it. Pete’s tattoos line his arms weirdly, the spaces between the oddly placed tattoos begging to be colored in and to be surrounded by more, to become a sleeve. “And I’ve heard of your band before. My friend Joe owns your CD. It’s on the top of our CD pile, cause, y’know, the alphabet.”

Pete looks genuinely shocked, shocked enough to prick his finger with the needle he’s been sewing with. Patrick immediately bites down on his tongue, and his fangs retreat and dig uncomfortably into his gums. _Great_. Pete’s blood seeps to the surface of the pad of his finger, and forms a perfect bead, and to make matters worse–

“Ow,” Pete says to himself through a wince, and then sucks his finger into his mouth. “That hurt.”

Patrick can’t say anything, afraid his fangs will show, afraid he might lean over and offer to clean Pete’s wound for him, so he just ducks his head under the counter and searches for a first-aid kit. He retrieves an alcohol wipe and a band-aid, but when he goes to give it to Pete, Pete works with his bloody finger and continues to stitch.

“Look,” Pete laughs. “I bled for it.”

The right edge of the tattered ‘ ** _FEEL BETTER!_ ** ’ sign is soaked in blood, and Patrick feels a little dizzy. And it’s not like Pete cut off his finger, the blood has already stopped leaking, but it’s all over the needle and the fabric and Pete’s hands, and the smell is intoxicating. _Warm_ , and _fresh_ , and reeks like cologne.

“What, are you afraid of a little blood?” Pete asks, smiling easy as he teases Patrick, but he lets up when Patrick nods, his lips set in a firm line, so he doesn’t open his mouth and show off his newly sharpened teeth. Patrick is already pale as is, almost translucent since he doesn’t drink blood like he’s supposed to, and he’s glad for this for the first time in his life since it’s clear that Pete understands this sudden change in Patrick to be fear.

“Oh shit, sorry, you really are scared of blood. I was just teasing. Shitty place to work then, huh?”

Patrick nods, and he pushes the wipe and band-aid back in Pete’s direction, wordlessly, and then he squeezes his eyes shut when he smells strong and stinging rubbing alcohol. Just like that, his fangs reside, and he says under his breath as Pete wipes off his finger, “I hate blood. Everything about it, it sucks.”

The blood isn't inviting and sweet smelling once it’s on that alcohol wipe, so Patrick easily dumps it in the trash, along with the packaging for the band-aid. “That’s why I’m in the gift-shop and not… working down by the blood supply.”

“I don't really like giving blood either,” Pete tells him, and although there’s still little drops and smears of blood on the needle and on the plushie, it’s become so distributed that it’s easy to ignore if Patrick focuses hard enough on Pete’s eyes and on the shitty pop music playing all around the shop. “I gave some earlier for my sister back when she needed a blood transplant, but I would chop my ankle off for her, I think.”

“ _Saw_ style with a hacksaw?” Patrick asks, and Pete scrunches up his face. “Dude, you’re scared of a little blood but you can watch _Saw?_ How does _that_ work?”

Patrick shrugs. “Honestly, I’ve never seen it. My friends have. Sounds like…”

He struggles to find the word for what he wants to say, but when he finds it, Pete finds it as well, and they say at the same time, “–torture porn?”

They smile at each other, and Pete leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, as his elbow remains planted on the counter. “You’re really cool, Patrick. I’m glad I found you and didn't just drive myself up the wall worrying.”

He pushes the sewing kit towards Patrick with his free hand, and he bites down on his lip delicately, giving Patrick this soft pleading expression, and _oh shit_ , is Pete flirting with him because. Because, uh… Patrick is _truly_ flattered, but there’s _so many_ things that could go wrong with that. Like Patrick playing along and then dating him and then accidentally sucking him dry… and not in the fun way.

“Y-yeah,” Patrick says, trying to keep his cool, even though Pete is close to him. “Me too. You made tonight a lot less boring for me. I’ve never had a customer ask to destroy property before.”

“Glad I could be your first,” Pete says, and Patrick does _not_ miss the way that Pete’s gaze flickers down to Patrick’s lips. If there were a healthy amount of blood in Patrick’s body, he’s sure he would be blushing.

“Whatever,” Patrick grumbles, but then he sorta gives Pete a lopsided smile to show that he’s welcoming whatever bullshit flirting this is. “Is that all?”

Pete nods, and he clutches the worse-for-wear iguana into his hand. “That’s all. I should probably get going, I have class early. Do you work here every night? I’m probably gonna be around a lot more now.”

Patrick pulls the iguana back from Pete’s grasp, scans it, and hands it back. There’s a tiny speck of blood on Patrick’s finger, but he leaves it. For obvious reasons. “Yeah, pretty much. I’m off on Fridays and Sundays, though. Why, do you plan on doing reconstructive surgery on the rest of the plushies?”

Pete reaches into his pocket and hands Patrick a wad of cash. “Maaaaaaybe. Or maybe I just wanna hang out with you. If that’s okay…”

Patrick quickly sets the money away and hands Pete back a 5 dollar bill. “I’m down. I’m so bored all by myself here.”

“Okay,” Pete says, and then he gives Patrick a goodbye wave. “Thanks for everything, Trix. See you soon!”

 _Trix_. Patrick smiles at the nickname, and he leans against the counter as he watches Pete walk away– his sweatpants don’t really do anything for Patrick, but Pete’s so lithe and kinda… kinda _cute_ , and as Patrick sucks the finger with the smear of Pete’s blood on it, he thinks to himself that he could get used to having Pete around.

* * *

The next night, when Patrick sneaks into the blood supply, he pinpoints Pete’s blood on the get-go. There’s not much of it left, he remembers Pete mentioning that he only donated because his sister needed it, but when Patrick goes to grab it, fingers itching for it, for another taste, he stops himself. _He only donated because his sister needed it,_ his conscience whispers.

For the first time since Patrick started going to the bank, he’s never given the blood much of a second thought, mostly because there’s always an abundance of it there. But… Pete didn’t donate it for any random person. He donated it for his sister who might die. And somehow, that _means_ something to Patrick.

He doesn’t take what’s left of Pete’s blood, even though it calls his name.

* * *

“Here,” Pete says to Patrick, handing him an envelope. “You said you were free Fridays and Sundays, didn’t you?”

It’s Pete and Patrick’s 4th night hanging out. It’s four o'clock in the morning, and they’re playing The Cure over the speakers. It’s four o'clock in the morning, and Patrick thinks he’s found a friend in Pete. Which is strange, because Patrick doesn’t have many ( _any_ ) human friends. A couple acquaintances from meeting people at shows, maybe, but those acquaintances don’t know Patrick’s favorite color, and he doesn’t know their favorite food. Pete says that he would die for a good tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich. And Patrick’s favorite color is orange.

Patrick doesn’t know if it was a coincidence when Pete showed up tonight in an orange hoodie.

He takes the envelope from Pete’s hands, and gives him an odd look over the brim of his coffee cup. Licking over his teeth twice, making sure there’s nothing there, Patrick nods in response to Pete’s question. “Yes, I’m off Fridays and Sundays… what’s this?”

Pete grins, silent so he doesn’t ruin the surprise, and when Patrick opens the letter, he pulls out a ticket for Arma’s next show. Friday, February 14, 2003.

“Happy Friday the 14th,” Pete says, sly smile on his face. You should come see me and my band, since you’re off and all. Unless you have a girlfriend and you need to keep her company…”

He then gives Patrick a look that can be only described as _suspicious_. Suspicious… but half hopeful. “Or, perhaps... a boyfriend?”

Patrick gulps. The blood coats his throat. He only has a couple of seconds to rationally think about his response, but he doesn’t take those seconds. In fact, he answers immediately. “No boyfriend. I’ll be there.”

“So, you’re…” Pete trails off, and Patrick shrugs. “Kinda fluid. Are you?”

“Kinda fluid too,” Pete laughs. “Oh wow, okay, cool. So you’re gonna come, yeah?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Patrick asks teasingly, just to watch Pete’s cheeks turn red. It’s adorably human, and he can already hear his clan laughing at his stupidity. _You’re entertaining a human, Patrick? Oh, come on!_

“I’m tired, okay, I’m just happy. You’ll come to the show. This is the best news I’ve heard all week,” Pete says, and both of their moods deflate in seconds. No word on the progress of Pete’s sister. Pete smells worse these days, not that Patrick really cares, since Pete tries to mask it with his shitty/amazing cologne, and he looks more and more tired, like he hasn’t been getting sleep. Caught between the hospital and school.

“Don’t lose hope,” Patrick offers, and when he reaches a hand out to place over Pete’s, to comfort him, Pete only winces. “I always forget you have cold ass hands.”

“It’s cold outside, I can’t be blamed,” Patrick frowns. “Come on, what can I do to cheer you up? Do you wanna re-invite me to your concert? I’ll say yes again, maybe that could help. Or we could play your favorite song, or–”

“I want coffee,” Pete says, eyeing Patrick’s blood-filled coffee cup. The lid is on, clearly, but Patrick still glances down nervously to make sure that there’s no red residue. The coffee cups, they’re good at masking the scent, but they’re eggshell white.  “Do you wanna get coffee with me?” Pete asks.  “And not the shitty hospital kind. I want _real_ stuff.”

“Okay, I can’t fucking leave work, don’t be–” “After, dumbass! When do you get out of here?”

Patrick is no good at math, but he tries to calculate how he can make this work. He gets off at 5:30, sun goes up at 7, and it takes 20 minutes to walk back to the apartment. He gives himself an extra 10 minutes to get home, and then he gives himself the 10 minute walk to the 24 hour coffee shop but then added to the walk from the coffee shop to the apartment… wait he’s lost it.

“Uh, I…” Patrick stalls, totally blanking. “5:30… but I have to leave at, like, 6:20 to get home. I have… stuff to do.”

“You live a 40 minute drive away?” Pete asks, eyebrows furrowed, and Patrick shakes his head. “I walk everywhere. And I’m super slow too.”

“Oh! Then, dude, let me drive you. My sister already got in a car crash, the universe would be shitty if I got into one too,” Pete jokes, and Patrick reaches over and gently punches Pete in the arm. “Not funny.”

And it’s _strange,_ the way hours pass with Pete. Because Patrick never sleeps unless he’s totally bored and has nothing to do (and there’s always something to do), so the hours go by painstakingly slow. But with Pete… they just pass. Pete talks about his sister, says he’ll bring his younger brother down to meet Patrick tomorrow, and Patrick talks about his friends, and they play cards and they listen to music, and Pete makes Patrick laugh, and… he makes him feel human again. It’s weird to hear about events that happen during the day, because that’s when the whole clan stays inside and watches movies. Pete talks about missing driving out to the beach with his friends and letting the sun kiss his skin, and Patrick can only think about a horrible death. Pete talks about the _best fucking pizza place ever,_ and Patrick can only say that he’s seen it. For the first time… he feels lonely.

Maybe that’s why he agrees to this date with Pete at 6 in the morning when it’s still dark. Drinking coffee (Patrick can drink it, it just tastes like nothing), holding hands, letting the warm air from the heaters hit his face.

But then he tells himself to stop being stupid. Because he clearly likes Pete.

He likes his dumb laughter, how he tries to keep smiling even though Patrick can understand that it must be so hard now. And his taste in music, and the way that he grabs the sleeve of Patrick’s jacket when Patrick goes to open the door of the car. Pete’s heart is racing, Patrick can hear it. “Wait. I wanna kiss you goodnight.”

Patrick turns his head, and glances down at Pete’s hand on his jacket, before he looks at the time. **_6:45 AM._ ** 10 minutes and he needs to be inside. He can spare some of that.

“Okay,” Patrick says, and he _can’t_ help but grin. “We can do that.”

Fleetwood Mac’s _Everywhere_ chimes in the background, on the radio, and Patrick can feel the sparkles from the song somewhere in his unbeating heart. Pete’s hand is strong and unwavering underneath Patrick’s jaw, and his fingers are warm, and Patrick knows he’s cold, but Pete doesn’t flinch away. They lean in together, to close the gap between their lips, and Patrick feels _everything_ . The taste of coffee on Pete’s tongue, he hears Pete’s heart beat faster, and _I wanna be with you everywhere._

“I have to go,” Patrick mumbles, forcing himself to pull away. “I have to go.”

“Okay,” Pete says, looking a little starry-eyed when Patrick distances himself further, so he doesn’t get distracted enough to dive in for another kiss. “Goodnight, Patrick. Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams,” Patrick repeats back, before he gets out of Pete’s car. He closes the door behind him, and when he hears Pete drive-away, he touches his fingers to his lips. He got _kissed_ . By a human. By _Pete_.

* * *

The next two weeks are a Pete-filled blur to Patrick.

They fall into a routine easily. Pete stops by the hospital to visit his sister at nights, he comes down to hang out with Patrick (and to do homework… and one time he napped), and then they say their goodbyes. There’s no room for anything else because Patrick _can’t_ do much else. When the sun sets, Pete has class. And during the day, when the sun is out, when Pete texts Patrick to see if he wants to go grab lunch, Patrick makes up bullshit excuses. That he’s tired, that he has another job, that he’s busy, that he’s visiting his family. He’s not doing any of that, but what else is he supposed to say?

Friends don’t lie to each other, but Patrick’s sure the universe could give him a pass for this one.

They’re so familiar with each other without it being romantic that it takes Patrick by surprise when Pete grabs him by the arm after his Arma show and yells in his ear, to be heard over the crowd, “Don’t leave yet! What, you gonna leave me all alone on _Valentine’s Day?_ ”

It’s Valentine’s Day, or rather, Valentine’s Night.

The Arma show was… pretty alright. Patrick’s not really into it, but he loves concerts because they’re overstimulating, and they make Patrick feel exhausted, which is a sensation that he barely experiences anymore. Everyone’s sweaty, the air is so sweet, the music is loud, the vibrations on the floor from everyone jumping around moves through Patrick easy like waves in the ocean, and it’s hard not to enjoy the show when _the show_ is so fucking attractive. Pete’s on fire. It’s weird, like the person on the stage is the same person that Patrick knows, because he sees Pete in hoodies and sweatpants and with under-eye bags and he’s seen Pete cry for his sister, and now… Pete’s fucking _hot_. Screaming into his microphone, working the crowd. He’s wearing a tank-top and he shows off his tattoos, and when he jumps into the pit, Patrick watches with dark and wanting eyes as his shirt gets torn up and as he gets bruised.

He’s a ball of energy when Patrick finds him after the show. He’s bleeding a little, and upon noticing Patrick, Pete quickly wipes it away- he remembers that Patrick ‘doesn’t like blood’. “Trixie! How did you like the show?”

Patrick smiles for real. “Good! The energy was great and I got sweat in my eyes!”

“Alright!” Pete cheers, and they laugh together. “So, I think I’m gonna head home now,” Patrick says, over the noise. “I’ll leave you and the band to hang out and whatever. I’m sure you’re, y’know, sick of my face anyway.”

He doesn’t say this for compliments, but Pete says this one easy. “Your face is one of my favorite faces! Don’t leave!”

But no, he should leave. The blood from Pete’s arm is becoming a little more than distracting. It’s kind of turning him on… and that’s not good. “Pete! Have fun with your friends! I promise, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

But Pete is persistent, and Patrick knows this about him. Pete grabs Patrick’s arm, the same way he did in the car, and he says, loud in Patrick’s ear since the noise from the crowd got louder, “Don’t leave yet! What, you gonna leave me all alone on _Valentine’s Day?_ ”

Pete is _everywhere_. His scent, his voice, his music rings in Patrick’s ears… and Patrick can’t be blamed when he pushes Pete off him, just so they can be at the right angle for when Patrick kisses him. He kisses him hard, feeling a _bad_ wave of possessiveness in him. The blood, the bruises… it’s so intoxicating.

“Let’s get out of here?” Patrick asks breathlessly, and Pete laughs, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of Patrick’s face. “Baby, I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

It’s five o’clock in the morning and Patrick’s sucking a heart-shaped hickey onto Pete’s neck.

Although Pete and Patrick got out of the venue at one o’clock, they didn’t start… _hooking up_ until 10 minutes ago. Time passes when you’re having fun. Who would have guessed?

This, the whole five o’clock thing, should be concerning, because the sun rises in 2 hours, and it’ll take Patrick half an hour to walk home. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that Pete’s going to have to fall asleep if he’s going to sneak out in time for him to get home. But at the forefront of his mind, there’s Pete. Bruised and needy Pete, who’s underneath Patrick in nothing but a pair of boxers. They’re both underneath the covers, since Patrick’s still cold from outside, and Pete jolts when Patrick’s hand moves down underneath the elastic of his underwear and down to his cock.

“Cold hands,” Pete breathes out. “Oh god, Trix, do something, I’m gonna fucking die, you’re such a _tease_.”

Patrick grins. His fangs haven’t made any grand appearance, and he’s feeling hopeful that they won’t. He was making out with Pete’s neck, and there was nothing even though he could feel Pete’s pulse from under his skin. He just prays that it stays that way. Pete’s cock is half hard, but the blood doesn’t bother him. Not when there’s everything else in the room- Pete’s choked off groans, the sweat that Patrick licked off his collarbones, the smell of Pete’s cologne from the clothes on the floor, the smell of Pete, stuck in his bedsheets from sleeping in them for a while without changing them. The rest of the house is empty– Pete’s family is at his sister’s side. They sleep on couches and chairs, Pete told Patrick one night.

Patrick’s glad they’re in Pete’s bed tonight. For a lot of reasons, but mostly so Pete can actually get a good night’s rest after they’re done with… well. Whatever is going to happen here. Judging by the way that Pete’s bucking his hips up, moving with the pull of Patrick’s hand… whatever’s going to happen here is going to end well.

“What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything you want me to,” Patrick murmurs, before he presses a kiss underneath Pete’s jaw. He feels slick against his hand, and the smell of pre-cum fills his nose. Saltiness that Patrick wants to lick away, but he knows that if–

“Suck my dick?” Pete says, looking a little hopeful when Patrick’s eyes meet his. “You asked!”

Patrick’s a little frozen in his place.

And that’s when his fangs decide to appear. When he thinks about being so close to Pete’s thighs, about the blood in his femoral artery, about his _hard cock,_ about Pete begging above him, it becomes too much. Patrick runs his tongue over his sharpened teeth, like he could push them back in, but it’s no use.  

He can’t say no, because then Pete will see his teeth. So, he decides to just fuck common sense. He presses one more kiss to the side of Pete’s face, before he slides down underneath the covers, so that Pete can’t see his teeth. Everything is hotter and sweatier down there and, in retrospect, grosser, but that turns him on even more.

“Okay,” Patrick says. “Just– just move a little. I need to pull these off of you.”

He snaps the waistband of the boxers against Pete’s skin, and it might have hit one of the bruises, because Pete lets out this strangled noise that makes Patrick’s mouth water. Or that might just be because _oh my god, Pete’s dick is right there._

Patrick’s truly fucked. There’s no way this is going to work.

“Under the covers?” Pete asks, his voice high-pitched and confused and needy. “But– how are you gonna– _air_?”

 _I don’t need oxygen_ , is at the tip of Patrick’s tongue. But he settles for very carefully licking the tip of Pete’s dick over the cotton of Pete’s boxers. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Patrick says, muffled, and when Pete’s hips raise, silently begging for more, he slides the cotton down.

Patrick’s hands are shaking, he’s so nervous. Because he’s sucked dick before, just... y’know. Back when he was human and didn’t have to worry about fucking vampire instincts. And he’s sucked dick as a vampire as well, but with another vampire, where there was no blood to make the fangs come out, and–

He stops thinking and starts licking. One hand on Pete’s hip bone, pressing into his bruises, and the other around the base of Pete’s cock. Pete seems to like this, the hand over the bruise, he likes the pain, because he whimpers the harder Patrick presses.

But that gets old quickly.

“Come on, Trix,” Pete sighs above him, voice full of desire. “More, please, more.”

But after a couple more seconds of Patrick debating with himself, should he just go for it, should he just start with the tip and see if his fangs can try to fucking cooperate with him, he just sighs, and buries his head in… well, Pete’s pubic hair. And begins to lie. “I’ve never… um… done this. I don’t know what to do.”

Pete pushes the covers off a little, to try to look at him, but Patrick moves them back in place. “No, don’t look at me, it’s so dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” Pete says, with a small laugh. But it’s a nice _‘I’m trying to make this more comfortable’_ laugh. “You don’t have to, we can do something else.”

“No,” Patrick says, “ _I wanna._ Just… let me control it. You’re so… big...”

Now, this whole situation makes a complete 180 change. Because Pete’s cock twitches, and he laughs again, but this time it’s low. His hands, one curls in Patrick’s hair. “Oh,” he says, “So I’m your first, huh? Afraid you’re gonna choke on my cock, that it? We can go your pace, baby.”

It’s an act, Patrick knows, but he moans pathetically at it anyways. “Yes,” he says, and when he licks over Pete’s cock again, Pete stays still, the only thing moving is Pete’s grip on Patrick’s hair. “You’re so hot.”

When he sucks the tip of Pete’s dick in his mouth, slowly, carefully, letting the saltiness hit his tongue, his fangs _definitely_ scrape the surface of his… shaft. Pete whines above him, “Too much teeth, baby. I know you’re a little cock hungry slut, but you gotta slow down.”

Patrick would burst into laughter but his mouth is a little preoccupied. _Cock hungry slut._ Pete isn’t good at the dirty-talk thing at all.

“This isn’t gonna work,” Patrick says, pulling off Pete’s dick. He lets it hit the side of his face. “Oh my god, I’m horrible at this. Do you have any lube?”

He can feel Pete’s heart beat faster. “Lube?” he asks. “Like… for you?”

“No, dumbass,” Patrick says, even though he’s sure _he_ looks like the dumbass. He’s still hiding under the covers. “For _you_. I’ll finger you while I pathetically try to suck your dick.”

“It’s not… _pathetic_ ,” Pete tries to say, but Patrick groans. “You don’t have to lie. Your dick is so big and I’m afraid it’s gonna hit my gag reflex and I’m gonna puke all over you and that’s gonna be my Valentine’s Day gift to you. Puke.”

Pete laughs. “I’m flattered. Okay… hold on, let me get the shit. Do you wanna come out now?”

Pete’s heart is still racing, and Patrick silently wonders if Pete’s ever bottomed before. He still seems nervous, even when Patrick goes back to his broad licks over the underside of his cock. Patrick’s fingers are coated in sticky, slippery lubricant, and when he slowly eases his middle finger into Pete, Pete tenses up. “Okay, fuck. I haven’t done this in a while. Like… _four years ago_ a while.”

“Just relax, then,” Patrick tells him. “Just focus on my mediocre blowjob. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Pete’s breath evens out a little the longer Patrick stays at it. Patrick’s hard too, but it’s easy to ignore when there’s so many other things happening. Pete’s smooth muscles working with him, the cry when Patrick hits Pete’s prostate with two crossed fingers, the way that Pete shoves at Patrick’s shoulders when Patrick tries to push for 4 fingers. “If you’re just gonna finger me, you might as well fuck me.”

“You would let me do that?” Patrick asks, pulling his drool covered mouth off Pete’s dick. “You’d let me fuck you? I thought you hadn’t–”

“ _Yes_ ,” Pete hisses, clenching around the three fingers inside him. “Only if you come back up and kiss me. Stop hiding, I miss your face.”

When Patrick pushes himself up with one hand, keeping the other one buried between Pete’s legs, he isn’t prepared for the sight that meets him. The lights are off, besides the bedside table lamp, and Patrick already knew what Pete’s golden skin looked against the warm light, but it’s different now– the sweat in his brow, the delirious look in Pete’s eyes, the desperation when Pete grabs him by his hair and kisses him. Patrick moves his fingers as they kiss, he shoves his tongue in Pete’s mouth so Pete doesn’t try to do it and gets his whole tongue fucked up by Patrick’s fangs, and Pete rubs himself against Patrick’s thigh, unashamed.

“You’re so beautiful,” Pete groans when Patrick drops his head in Pete’s neck, and licks over the heart-shaped hickey. Pete’s shaking a little, since Patrick’s hitting his prostate so good. “Get the fuck in me already, Jesus Christ.”

Pete leans over to grab a condom from his inside drawer, and Patrick sits back on his heels, just to catch his breath. Even though he doesn’t need air. He just... needs a moment, to make sure that he doesn’t go crazy and dig his fangs in Pete’s neck when he thrusts in, even though that’s what he wants to do the most. He’s still got most of his clothes on, his sweater and his boxers, but when he goes to pull them off, he looks at the time, and almost collapses. **_5:40._ **

He has to get out of here by 6:15. He has to get out of here, but Pete can’t be awake for it. He has to get dressed, he has to make sure that Pete’s asleep, and, according to his dick, most importantly, he has to make Pete come. And he’s got barely 35 minutes to do it all.

 _It couldn’t have taken that long to not even blow him_ , Patrick thinks to himself, getting more and more nervous, how did he let that happen, how did–

“Oh fuck,” Patrick suddenly moans, feeling Pete roll his condom over his dick. He throws his head back, so he can cry out without Pete seeing his hideous teeth, and Pete laughs. “Next time, I’m gonna suck your dick so good, teach you how to do it. You sound so hot right now, can’t wait till you’re inside of me,” he babbles. “Wanna hear more of your moans when you fill me up. Want you to fuck me so rough, make me forget about everything else except your dick.”

“You suck at dirty talk,” Patrick says. “Turn over.”

“No,” Pete whines. “I wanna see you.”

In any other situation, Patrick would find this endearing.

“Pete, _stop_ ,” he tries to sound serious, but it’s hard when Pete’s spreading lube over the condom with his hands. “I’m really… self-conscious, alright? Can you turn the light off? I promise, we can do it boring missionary style, I just–” “It’s not boring! It’s nice.”

Pete reaches over with his slippery hand to tug on the string to the lamp, and then they are shrouded in darkness. Patrick can barely see a thing, and Pete can’t either, so Pete uses his clean hand to swipe over the surface of Patrick’s face. “I miss you already,” Pete says softly, and then he hitches his hips up a little. “Alright, come on. Get naked and fuck me.”

Pete’s ankle digs into Patrick’s shoulders when Patrick thrusts in, and Pete throws his head back into his pillow as he moans. Their angle is weird, Patrick’s on his knees, and one of Pete’s legs are thrown over his shoulder, but it ends up being the right one, based on the way that Pete cries out. “ _Fuck_ , man,” he gasps. “You feel so good. Move.”

Patrick’s hands rest on Pete’s fragile hip bones, and in explicit terms, he fucks Pete onto himself. Hard. He knows there’s going to be bruises from his grasp, but he doesn’t care, and judging from Pete’s noises, he doesn’t care either. He lets himself get manhandled (vampirehandled?) by Patrick, and when Patrick smells a new kind of saltiness in the air, he realizes it’s Pete crying.

“Dude, are you okay?” Patrick asks, slowing down a little, because he knows that he can be… _rough_ , but Pete nods feverishly. “So fucking good. You’ve never sucked a fucking dick before, but you can– _fuck, oh my GOD –_ fuck like this?!”

Patrick doesn’t answer– he’s too busy trying to hold himself off. Everything is too much again, Pete crying, how harsh his breathing is, how tight he is around his dick, the smell of sex, the lube, the slickness, the everything. Once again, the clock is forgotten. The only thing on his mind is _make Pete come, make Pete come, make Pete come._

Pete comes unexpectedly. And untouched. When Patrick slams into him, hard enough for Pete’s head to knock into the headboard, that’s when he comes. With one hand braced on the bedside table, and the other gripping his sheets so tightly that his fingers are white.

He looks spent, from what little Patrick can see of him. He can smell eyeliner that must have run, and Pete’s cum has splattered over both of their stomachs, but when Patrick goes to pull out, to jerk himself off to completion, Pete keeps him closer by the ankle wrapped behind Patrick’s shoulder. “Keep going,” Pete urges him. “Come on, use me.”

And Patrick almost does bite Pete in the end. He really almost does. He can’t help but bury his face in Pete’s neck when he comes, and he opens his mouth, and he’s so close to doing it, to biting him, but Pete’s broken off moan stops him. _This is Pete,_ he tells himself, this isn’t any random person, it’s _Pete_.

He cries out Pete’s name instead, because that’s the only word that he can think of. Pete’s bed, Pete’s smell, Pete’s voice. He’s slowly falling for him, he knows it.

When he pulls out, he glances at the time. **_5:58._ ** Okay, he can work with that. Pete is a mess underneath him, his whole body has gone lax, and he knows, he _knows_ he can get Pete to sleep in 10 minutes.

“Where… where are you going?” Pete asks sleepily, when Patrick steps out from under the covers. The cold air hits him everywhere as he tosses the tied condom into a garbage can near to the bed, and he awkwardly steps into his boxers as he says, “just going to the bathroom to get a washcloth to clean us up. Relax, I’ll be back.”

Pete makes a happy agreeing noise, and he turns on his side underneath the covers. “Mm-kay…”

His fangs draw back when he’s wetting a washcloth from one of the cabinets in the bathroom. The water is warm under his hands, and when he looks into the mirror and tries out his smile, he looks as normal as normal looks. He doesn’t sweat, but his hair is sticky from Pete’s hands. Besides that, he looks put together, something that he’s grateful for since he’s going to have to sneak away in 10 minutes and walk back out into civilization.

“That was too good,” Pete slurs out when Patrick swipes the washcloth over his stomach and between his legs. “God, I haven’t been fucked like that… _ever_. Some people are just too fucking gentle. Come, be the big spoon.”

Patrick throws the cloth on the floor, and he drapes his arm over Pete’s shoulder. 8 minutes… he has 8 minutes.

“Good night, Pete. Sweet dreams,” Patrick whispers to him, pressing a kiss to the side of his face. “I’m sorry for the bruises…”

“Don’t be sorry,” Pete laughs lowly, tiredly. “They’re fucking _hot_. Gonna be feeling you all over. Good night, Trix. Sweet dreams.”

And when the 8 minutes pass, Patrick still hasn’t heard Pete’s breath even out. He’s not asleep. He’s almost there, but Patrick can’t wait. There’s still his clothes to be put on, there’s still sneaking out. He curses himself, he shouldn’t have fucked Pete, he should have just fingered him and let them rest for the 30 minutes, but he guesses that was the little bit of human that Pete brought back into his life.

He retracts his arm after another 2 minutes of waiting, and he slowly pulls himself out of Pete’s bed. His heart can’t race because there’s no blood, but everything in his body feels wrong.

Pete grabs Patrick’s arm suddenly, just when Patrick thinks he’s gotten away with murder. “Where are you going?”

If Patrick could cry, he would cry. “I have to leave,” he says in a timid voice.

“No,” Pete says sleepily, “stay with me, cuddle. I’ll buy McDonalds for breakfast.”

He repeats what he said earlier in the night. “What, you gonna leave me all alone on Valentine’s Day?”

And then he adds this– “Right after you fucked the absolute shit out of me?”

“Pete,” Patrick pleads, “please, just don’t ask questions, I need to go, like, _right now_.”

He can _smell_ anger begin to seep into Pete’s blood stream. Pete immediately sits up, and turns so that he’s facing Patrick. “No. Why the _fuck_ do you have to go? Why do you always have to leave?”

He yanks the lamp lights on, and Patrick feels a violent jolt of _something_ in him when he sees Pete’s face. Pete’s eyes are red-rimmed from the crying, his eyeliner has run, and he looks exhausted suddenly, looks spent, and most importantly, he looks _sad_. “Look at me in the fucking face, Patrick! Why do you have to leave, why can you never see me during the day?”

Patrick stares at him, stunned. “I… I-”

“What, is there someone one else that you didn’t tell me about?”

That’s the easiest route, that’s how he can get out of this. He has to get out of this, he doesn’t have a choice.

“Y-yeah,” Patrick says, going with Pete’s train of thought, and he watches as Pete’s face crumples. “But I swear, everything between us–”

“No!” Pete screams at him suddenly. “There’s no _us_ , you fucking piece of shit! Oh my God, I– I let you _fuck me_.”

He doesn’t sound as much angry as he does disgusted. “I fucking hate cheaters, and I fucking hate _you_. Get the fuck out of my face.”

“Pete,” he tries, and he almost drops to his knees for forgiveness, but he can’t, there’s no use, he knows Pete wouldn’t budge and he’s already going to see sunrise unless he runs home, so he just settles for grabbing his clothes. “Please, just–”

He tries to reach for Pete, to try to console him, but Pete shifts away. “Get your fucking cold hands away from me,” he says, with tears in eyes. “I can’t believe this. It’s always the nice ones, right?”

“No,” Patrick says, “it just–”

“Lose my number and don’t come looking for me tomorrow,” Pete says to him. “And hey, thanks for making my life ten times worse. I _really_ hope you enjoyed playing me like a fucking fool. Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.”

Patrick makes it home in time but a part of him wishes that he didn’t.

* * *

Work shouldn’t feel as lonely as it does. Patrick’s been working at the gift shop for a year now, and he’s never felt this awful sense of boredom that he’s been feeling as of late.

But after two weeks of constantly seeing Pete, having someone to talk to, someone to laugh with, sitting alone with his music and his blood filled coffee cup just doesn’t have the same calming effect it used to. Work used to be safe haven away from the rest of his clan. But now, he misses someone to share space with. He wants _Pete_. But he knows not to go look for him.

Pete passed by the gift-shop on Saturday, but it was only for the elevator. Patrick’s not an idiot, he knows how shitty he sounded on Friday night. But it was either tell him the truth, that he’s a fucking _vampire,_ stay in Pete’s house all day, or just _die_.

“Maybe it was for the better?” Joe, Patrick’s best friend and fellow clan member suggests, as he sips on his own cup of blood. “I don’t wanna sound like an asshole, but… to quote that Sk8er Boi song–”

“Don’t fucking quote Avril,” Patrick moans miserably. But Joe does it away. _“He was a vampire, he was a human, can I make it anymore obvious?”_

He adds this, in the same sing-songy voice. _“How that wasn’t gonna work?_ ”

Patrick bribed Joe with free blood to keep him company as he worked, but he’s starting to regret it.

“It could have been like… West Side Story…” Patrick tries to say, but he knows how West Side Story ends. In a fucking tragedy. “It just sucks. Like the whole thing fucking sucks. And the worst part is, he’s been having such a hard time with, like, _everything_ , and then I went and royally fucked it up. I dunno, I’ve never felt this fucking hung up and _bad_ about something before.”

He takes another sip of his blood, and then sighs. “You still carry whiskey in that super old and dusty flask, right?”

“Drinking on the job, cheating on your pretend boyfriend… nice moral compass, Stump,” Joe jokes, reaching into his vest pocket. Patrick shoots him an annoyed glare. “Not funny.”

“You’re the one who made fun of my flask! It’s as old as William, okay? Fucking _old_.”

William was turned hundreds of years ago… Patrick and Joe not so much. Like, in the past 5 years _not so much._

Joe opens the coffee cup, and the smell of sweet blood fills the air. He dumps about half of his _‘old and dusty’_ flask’s worth of whiskey into the blood, as he complains. “I think I might try to get a job working in a hospital gift shop if I can get this much blood and do nothing. Hunting is so boring when you have to 4th wheel Trav, Gabe, and Bill. Like, last time, they wanted to stop to fuck and I had to wait outside, and I had no cell service to call Marie. So I just sat there, horny as fuck, and listened to them bang for an hour.”

Patrick thinks he might be smelling Pete coming this way, but he’s probably headed for the elevators, so he doesn’t give it another thought. He just laughs at Joe’s story, and says semi-bitterly, semi-jokingly, “You might just start falling for random customers, so I wouldn’t recommend it.”

But then Pete’s scent is suddenly too close for comfort. _Way too close_. One second, Patrick’s joking with Joe, and the other, he’s scrambling to close the lid on his coffee cup. “He’s coming, like, right now,” Patrick says to Joe quickly, and Joe turns his head to watch Pete storm in.

The first thing that Patrick notices is that the heart-shaped hickey is still on Pete’s neck. They hooked up on Saturday morning, and now it’s Monday night. Judging from that alone, Patrick _knows_ that the bruises that he put on Pete’s hips must still be there, and he feels so much guilt in the pit of his stomach. If not from that, then from how fucked up Pete looks. Like he hasn’t been getting any sleep, and he’s running on pure adrenaline alone for this interaction. Determination and anger and sadness are in his bloodstream. “So, this is your boyfriend, huh?”

“No,” Patrick says, still fumbling with the lid of the coffee cup a little. “He’s not. Pete, just–”

Joe looks like he would rather be anywhere else, but at the same time… vaguely entertained. However, Patrick’s the only one in this situation who would know what that facial expression looks like. Because, it just looks like shock to Pete.

“He fucked me on Valentine’s Day, you know,” Pete tells Joe, totally and completely ignoring Patrick. “And he sucked my dick. Well… _tried._ ”

Joe stutters. “I… uh…”

“ _Pete_ ,” Patrick says more urgently, “please listen to me, _please_ , just–”

“I’m only telling you this so you break up with him,” Pete says to Joe, before he looks over to Patrick, and sneers at him. His eyes are narrowed, and again, _anger_ pumps through his heart. “You didn’t even _tell him._ You really are a–” “Pete, oh my _God,_  just–”

“Shut up!” he yells at him, throwing his hands up before he points an accusatory finger in Patrick’s face. “You don’t get to tell me anything anymore. I’m sorry I even met you.”

“I know,” Patrick says, “I _know_ , but just let me explain myself, there’s–”

By the time that Pete grabs Patrick’s half-opened coffee cup, it’s too late. Joe’s eyes widen, and he yells “ _NO_!” and Patrick stares at Pete in pure horror when Pete throws the contents of the cup in Patrick’s face.

Hot blood coats Patrick’s face, neck, and the front of his shirt. The smell is _everywhere._ Blood drips from Patrick’s chin into little droplets on the floor and sits pretty in the spaces between the tiles.

“W-what…” Pete says softly, blinking down into the cup. His fingers have blood on them too, and after Pete looks between his hands, and Patrick’s shocked face and the red tiles on the floor, and the leftover pool blood in the cup, his eyes roll to the back of his head, and he faints. Just like that. Like all of the exhaustion, paired with the shock, caused a light to switch.

Joe is quick to catch Pete before he falls, and for a moment, it’s just Patrick, who’s _dripping_ blood, and Joe, who’s cradling an unconscious Pete in his arms, staring at each other, totally unsure where to go from here.

“What the _fuck_ do we _do_?!!” Patrick asks, almost hysterically. “Is he okay?!”

“Yeah,” Joe says, before he moves Pete’s head off him, so he’s just lying on the ground. He looks dead, and Patrick doesn’t like the way that looks at all. “Okay, okay, fuck, okay, sorry, you smell really good right now, thanks for wasting my alco–” “ _Joe_!” “Okay, you take off… _all_ your clothes, we move Pete behind the counter, and then we paper towel everything else.”

“What are we going to tell him?!” Patrick asks, waving his blood soaked hands in Pete’s direction. “Should we just–”

“Cross that bridge when we get there, you look like you just came back from the hotel in The Shining. Change your clothes!”

There’s a tiny, one stall bathroom in the gift-shop, so that’s what Patrick uses to change out of his fucking murder costume. He silently mourns for his tee-shirt as he peels it off his body, and he rinses his hands before he takes his contacts out in a hurry. Cold and heartless red eyes greet him in the mirror, but he’s moving at such a fast pace, toilet paper dabbing at his face and his neck, and using up the rest of the soap in the dispenser to wash vigorously at the blood in his hair, that he can’t find it in himself to care. Every thought is _oh fuck, there’s blood everywhere, I’m kinda hungry, is Pete okay, Joe’s gonna kill me for putting him in this situation, why can’t this get out of my pants, I’m still hungry._

He reappears for a moment, to grab a shirt that Joe haphazardly threw his way. It’s a Valentine’s Day hospital shirt, and it says, _‘I aorta tell you how much I love you’,_ and Patrick almost cries out at the sheer ridiculousness and the irony of it all. But he just fits it over his head, empties out the rest of paper towel dispenser, soaks the bundle of paper in his hands, and then goes back out into the war zone.

Joe looks up from drinking his own cup of blood, and when Patrick points at Pete wordlessly, Joe shrugs. “He’s pretty okay to me. We just have to wake him up soon. Oh, dude, the shirt matches your eyes perfectly.”

And Joe continues to snicker even as Patrick throws a wet wad of paper towel at his face.

The clean-up isn’t as bad as Patrick anticipated, mostly because he got the worst of it all, but of course, Pete only gains back consciousness when Patrick’s right next to him, scrubbing at the stain in the tile. Pete stirs a little, and Joe and Patrick both give each other nervous looks. Pete shuffles back when he looks at Patrick and sees his red eyes before he looks back at Joe, who’s in the middle of taking a sip.

“We’re not gonna kill you,” Joe says, trying to remain casual. But when he smiles and Pete sees his red-stained teeth, he shuffles back further. “Honest! If Patrick was gonna kill you, he would have done it a long time ago.”

“Joe,” Patrick groans. “You’re not helping our ‘friendly neighborhood vampire’ thing.”

“Patrick,” Pete says, turning to look back at Patrick. He’s looking at him dead-on, but Patrick knows that he’s only doing that because of Patrick’s red eyes. “I just want to leave and pretend like I never walked in here in the first place.”

“Okay,” Patrick says. “You can do that.”

“Okay,” Pete echos, blinking a couple of times, just to remind himself where he is, and what he just said. He eyes Patrick’s cup from before, looks at the blood still inside of it, and in another moment, he’s walking out of the gift-shop. Just like nothing happened, like he never walked in, in the first place.

“Do you think he’ll tell anyone?” Joe asks, as an afterthought. “Like, not that anyone would really believe him, considering he looks like the walking dead–” “ _We’re_ the walking dead–” “–but do you think he’ll say anything?”

The question hangs in the air.

* * *

The last person Patrick expects to see shows up in the shop after two weeks.

He’s listening to music on his headphones as he searches for spiders, when he smells Pete. When he turns around, Pete’s in front of him, looking healthy and happy and _good_.

“Trix,” Pete says, tentatively. “Can we… talk? I’m not gonna call you any mean names, promise.”

“I can talk,” Patrick replies, pulling his headphones out of his ears. “I haven’t, uh, _seen_ you around lately.”

He means to say ‘smell’, but he knows that that will do nothing but make Pete thoroughly uncomfortable. So, he deals.

“I mean, I was still sorta fuming about the whole situation,” Pete says, treading lightly, before he smiles. For real. Patrick hasn’t seen Pete’s actual smile since the night (well, _morning_ , really) that they hooked up. “But no, my sister actually woke up, so she’s been home since… not this Wednesday, but the other Wednesday.”

And this is the part where Patrick would hug him, except he doesn’t really know where they stand… so he just opts for grinning like a fool. “Oh shit, that’s great! I’m glad she’s better. Did she say anything about the iguana?”

Pete rolls his eyes, even though he’s still working off the high of the good news. “Yeah, she said it was fucking disgusting. But she didn’t throw it away, so I think I’m in the clear.”

“Oh, I’m glad,” Patrick says. “I mean not that, whatever, that it was gross, but that all your hard work didn’t go to waste.”

“Yeah…” Pete nods, and then he looks down at the coffee cup in Patrick’s hand, and then back at Patrick’s eyes, and then back at the coffee cup. “You should have told me. You put me through fucking hell that night.”

“Told you what, that I’m a _vampire_?” Patrick asks. “Really? You would have believed that?”

“I don’t know! But you should have stayed. I would have believed you if you showed me!”

“Showed you? How could I have–”

Pete points to his mouth. “The fangs, you fucking moron. When you were trying to suck me off and you were hiding under the covers. I _get_ it now.”

 _Oh_. Oh, right.

“I couldn’t just say it,” Patrick says. They’re still standing in the aisles, back in the spot where they met. “There’s an unspoken ‘ _don’t tell humans about your existence_ ’ type of rule. It was easier for me to just lie, and just… I don’t know. Save you from me, I guess. I shouldn’t have liked you, it’s not… whatever. _Orthodox_ , I guess.”

“But you did,” Pete says. “You did like me.”

“I _do_ like you,” Patrick sighs. ‘Which is why it sucked when– it doesn’t matter, I hurt you regardless, which I shouldn’t have.”

“You did… you did hurt me, but it’s like, whatever, you know. I understand why. I’m not angry anymore… sorta. Just... I don’t know! I still like you even though you have the potential to kill me! Your bruises lasted a week, man.”

Patrick winces. “I tried to be gentle.”

“That’s so hot,” Pete blurts out, before he adds, “And okay, even though I still really hate the fact that you lied to me, we’ve already established that I realize now it was a matter of life and death and that you didn’t actually cheat on anyone and you don’t actually have a boyfriend. Right?”

“Right,” Patrick nods. “Swear on my life.”

They stand in silence for a moment, letting the shitty hospital music fill in the gaps.

“So, like, how old are you _really_?” Pete asks suddenly. “I know you said almost 19, but–”

“Um… a couple hundred years, you kinda lose track after the first 600, you know?” Patrick jokes, and then he laughs when he sees how wide Pete’s eyes are. “Kidding! I was only turned five years ago, so I _guess_ I’m technically 23.”

“That’s kind of a bummer… I was thinking, like, a solid 104 or something. But that’s cool. And what, you just… steal blood from the blood supply?”

Patrick almost chokes over the air. “Wait what, how did you–”

“I overthink things, so I sorta pieced everything together after that night. I had to convince myself that it wasn’t just me hallucinating because of my meds.”

Patrick opens his coffee cup and shows the contents to Pete, who looks a little disturbed. “I promise you, you’re not hallucinating.”

“Did you… like…” Pete tries to say, except he’s begun to blush, so he just ends up stumbling over his words. “Like, does my blood smell good to you, or– okay, stop laughing at me, I’ve never had to ask that question before!”

“Uh, yeah,” Patrick laughs stupidly, giddy with happiness. He can’t blush, but he would right alongside Pete if he could. He feels really _human_. “It mostly smells like your cologne, but yeah, it smells good. It changes a lot by the food you eat and the stuff you drink and your mood, but it’s like…  you just smell like _you_. I can’t explain it.”

“So, what do I smell like now?” Pete asks, tilting his head in a flirtatious manner. And that is NOT a sexy question, except he’s moving in a little closer, and his heart is beating fast again and–

“Um… like tomato soup and grilled cheese and your cologne and also tired and also really fucking hot, all mixed into one Pete scent.” Patrick blurts out. “Like, _Eau de Pete._ ”

“Sounds kinda sexy, I would wear it,” Pete grins. “Anyways, before I jump you while you’re at work, can you un-lose my number so you can call me so I can come over later? I have class, so I should probably leave soon, but I can come over after. And then we can fuck until the sun goes down and then you can take me out on a proper date.”

“Would you kill me if I never lost it in the first place?” Patrick asks sheepishly, before he says, “But yeah, I can call you. Everyone might be a lot and Joe might tease you for passing out but–”

Pete silences him with a kiss, both hands on Patrick’s cold face. Patrick kisses him back, and when his cold hands move to press against Pete’s, Pete smiles. “I might have done some lying too. I _do_ like your cold hands.”

Patrick knows there’s going to have to be more of a conversation here, about the fact that Patrick’s literally a monster, about the fact that Patrick will never age, about the fact that a future between them might not be bright.

But for now, he just goes with the flow. He guesses it’s the little part of human that Pete brought back to him.

**Author's Note:**

> “You don’t have to lie. Your dick is so big and I’m afraid it’s gonna hit my gag reflex and I’m gonna puke all over you and that’s gonna be my Valentine’s Day gift to you. Puke.” that actually happened to my friend derick like he really puked all over this guy's dick one time JHSJSDHJHJHASD
> 
> ANYWAYS. happy valentines! this ended up being a lot longer than i planned (bruh really snapped @ the smut) but,, what can ya do!!


End file.
